Loud
by andromeda's song
Summary: "The thoughts were still there… the connections were still being made and the sentiment didn't distract him as he thought it might. It just made everything a little less loud." Something goes wrong on a case and Sherlock confesses to John that sometimes...he's as human as the rest of us.


Loud

For DaviesintheMaking, who knows the true meaning of inspiration.

Lestrade ducked as the Union Jack pillow came flying at his head, aimed with deadly accuracy. It missed him by mere centimetres and landed with a thump on the floor behind him. He frowned and turned back to the lump of consulting detective curled in the armchair by the fire.

"What was that for?" Lestrade demanded.

"I believe I asked you to go away," Sherlock muttered from his perch.

"And I believe I told you that I wouldn't go away until you talked to me about this," Lestrade countered.

Sherlock scoffed. "I don't need to talk about anything. I told you, Lestrade, I'm fine and you're only serving to irritate me more by pushing the question further. Honestly, you call yourself a detective inspector?"

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock, you need to talk about this. If not with me, then with John or Mycroft…"

There was an indignant snort from the opposing armchair. "Just because you enjoy talking to my brother doesn't mean I do."

Lestrade ignored the jibe and pushed on. "John then, if you won't talk to me. You need to hash it out with someone. If you don't… you'll go mad."

The detective inspector almost shivered as unfathomable grey-green eyes were turned to him, the aristocratic face unreadable and solemn. The expression morphed into one of mocking as Sherlock chuckled lightly.

"Go mad?" Sherlock asked. "My dear Lestrade… I assure you that you have no idea, no tangible idea of what it means to go mad. You ordinary people with your ordinary minds and your ordinary thoughts… you don't know what it means to be mad. So let that be a comfort to you as you walk out my door. I'll go mad?" Sherlock chuckled again and the sound made Lestrade shift his feet in agitation. Sherlock stared at him with a quiet intensity.

"I've already gone there," Sherlock whispered. He turned to gaze into the fire and a silence fell in the flat. Lestrade watched Sherlock for a few moments before he cleared his throat and headed towards the door.

"You'll talk to John, then?" he asked from the threshold. When a low humming sound came from the armchair, Lestrade took it to be an agreement and left 221 B.

John was in a cab on his way home from the clinic when his phone buzzed with a text message. He clicked open the device and read the message from Lestrade.

**Sherlock needs to speak to you. **

John frowned. That sentence could be interpreted in several different ways. Was Lestrade telling him that Sherlock had said that he wanted to speak to John? Was Lestrade telling John that he needed to make sure that Sherlock spoke to him?

_Are you Sherlock's messenger now? :-) He lose his phone in the Thames again?_

**No, he's at Baker Street. Had a case today. Didn't end well. **

Panic flooded John's brain. _Is he okay? Are you okay? _

**We're fine, John. Just… talk to him. And don't tell him I talked to you. **

John frowned at his phone before the cabbie's voice interrupted his thoughts. He paid the man and walked up to his flat, concerned and mildly confused.

When John entered 221 B, he was taken aback by the darkness, the dying flames in the fireplace being the only source of lighting since the sun had set and the sky outside was a moody indigo. John's eyes adjusted to the low light and focused on the sulking form of his flatmate, curled in his armchair and holding a lighted cigarette. The tendrils of smoke wafted up in the air like a shallow promise made in the dark.

John hung his coat up on the rack and walked into the kitchen, determined to keep things at a base level of normality since he was not supposed to know that something was up with Sherlock. But even if Lestrade hadn't warned him, John would have known something was wrong anyway. Sherlock was always countering John's requests (i.e. clean up the experiments, put on some clothes, don't leave fingers next to the jam). But Sherlock almost never countered John's abolition of cigarettes, no matter how grumpily he protested. He had a stock of patches and used them while he was off doing god-knows-what in his mind palace. The fact that the cigarette was out meant things were… a bit not good.

John made two cups of tea and carried them into the darkened sitting room. He approached the chair opposite his like one approaches a sleeping tiger, moving slowly and stealthily. He could feel Sherlock's eyes watching him, but John focused on sitting the mug of tea on the arm of the chair, not letting go until a long-fingered hand snaked up to take it from him. John nodded gently and retreated to his own chair, sinking in with a pleased sigh. They sat in silence for a long time, the stillness only broken by the crackle of flames and the quiet clink of teacups.

"Did he tell you?" Sherlock asked, breaking the silence at long last.

John feigned ignorance. "Did who tell me what?"

Sherlock made his mocking face. "Don't pretend, John, you know I can see through that."

"He didn't tell me the specifics, no," John relented. "How'd you know?"

Sherlock sighed. "You didn't curse me out for the cigarette. You always complain when I smoke, especially if I smoke inside. You didn't, which means you don't want to argue with me. You only don't argue with me if you are feeling upset or if you don't want to upset me. You clearly had a good day at the surgery, so you didn't mention the cigarette because you don't want to upset me. That leads me to believe that you believe something is wrong, and the only way you'd know that is if Lestrade told you."

"Except for the fact that you smoking a cigarette inside is usually an indicator that something is wrong," John countered. "When I came inside, I noticed that the lights were all off, which usually doesn't happen unless you've been too busy thinking to bother to turn on the lights. I noticed the cigarette, which is a tell-tale sign that something's off, because you very rarely contradict that request, and when you do it's because you're upset and don't care. Also, you accepted the tea I made without asking you if you wanted any. If I ask you if you want tea, you'll tell me. If I make you tea without asking, there's a higher probability that you will take it if you've got something on your mind. When you're busy with work or experiments, you don't take it. When you're upset, you do take it."

John watched as something in Sherlock's usually proud (almost haughty) countenance crumbled and he hung his head in defeat.

"Sound conclusions, John," the man whispered. "Congratulations. Now you're smarter than me as well." He set his teacup down and stood, making to move away and towards his bedroom, but John caught his wrist as he passed, holding him there.

"John," Sherlock muttered.

"Sherlock," John answered, squeezing the man's wrist insistently. "Please tell me." John kept his voice low and as openly honest as he could, relaxing his facial features and smiling gently to show the detective that he bore him no malice.

Sherlock sighed in defeat and turned back to his chair, John releasing his wrist as he did so. He regained his seat and settled back in the cushion, daring to light another cigarette even though he saw John's lips twitch a little in disapproval. But Sherlock ignored that and inhaled the smoke, revelling in the feel of the nicotine dashing across his synapses.

John waited patiently.

"I am very smart," Sherlock started. He waited for John's scoff of acknowledgement, but the doctor remained motionless in his chair, eyeing Sherlock with an unflappable, understanding gaze. Emboldened, Sherlock continued.

"Ever since I was a child, I've known just how smart I am. I've always been able to see things beyond what a normal person sees. I am able to observe and make connections between things I see and things I already know. I understand…and I comprehend. It's this ability that allows me to do my job, which I do very well."

"Yes…" John interjected. "You are very good at what you do."

Sherlock gave a weak smile and stared into the fire before continuing. "I am also a musician. One of the peculiar things about being a musician—or any artist for that matter—is that you are never satisfied. Not wholly anyway. No matter how much you practice or how perfectly you execute a performance…there's always something that you feel you could have done better. There's always something that doesn't quite fit into your utopian picture of your concerto or your watercolour or your poem. Dissatisfaction is something that keeps art alive, I think…because we're always trying to improve it…trying to make it different and twist it into what we think is perfection. But we never quite achieve it."

Sherlock paused and swallowed heavily, gathering his thoughts. "My work is my art, John. I invented my career and I've pursued it with an almost single-minded obsession from day one. I have spent countless hours and days tracking the vilest criminals across London. I have spent the majority of my available brain power solving cases that no one else can solve. I dedicate my off hours towards conducting experiments that further my knowledge so that I may more effectively solve these cases. I read journals and theses dedicated towards forensic science and criminal justice. The point is… I'm bloody good at what I do and I… I like doing it."

John leaned forward in his chair, the movement of which caught Sherlock's eye. The friends stared at one another for a few moments before John asked, "What happened today, Sherlock?"

Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in his chair, passing a hand over his eyes and massaging the bridge of his nose. "I was wrong today, John. I made an error."

John clicked his tongue quietly. "You're wrong sometimes, Sherlock. It happens… why—'''

"Because today it got someone hurt, John," Sherlock interrupted, forestalling the inevitable question that lay on the tip of John's tongue. He watched John's face morph into several different emotions—shock, disbelief, and finally concern.

"What happened?" he asked quietly.

"Lestrade called me out to a crime scene," Sherlock said. "Violent triple murder…triplets, two boys and a girl. They'd all been the victims of violent sexual assault and then had their throats slit. They were thirteen." Sherlock paused for a breath and John breathed out heavily, muttering "Jesus H. Christ" under his breath.

"The bodies were very fresh," Sherlock continued. "They couldn't have been more than an hour or two old. What I failed to realise was that the sexual assault had taken place after their throats had been slit…necrophilia. Anderson had made a remark about the fluids found in the girl being less coagulated than the blood, but I dismissed it because he's an idiot. He and I left the room in an argument and the med tech was left to finish the scene."

Sherlock huffed a breath. "It would seem that I not only missed the fact that the assault was post-mortem, but also that the murderer was still inside the room."

"What?" John breathed. "Still…inside the room…."

"Yes. The arrival of the police had interrupted the… post-mortem assault and he hadn't had time to make an escape. He holed himself up in the closet and when Anderson, Lestrade, and I left the room, he seized the opportunity to slip out. He took the med tech hostage and when she screamed we all ran back to the room."

Sherlock paused. "Do you remember the man that escaped us about two months ago? The man that was stabbing people walking through Regent's Park at night?"

"Oh…" John said. "Ummm… yeah, the man from Regent's Park… dark hair, war veteran like me, missing two fingers on his right hand?" Though none of the stabbings were lethal, they were vicious. John had recognised the style as the way they'd been taught in the army. Sherlock had recognised the peculiar angle as a product of the missing digits.

"The same," Sherlock answered. "It was him. It would seem that he graduated from non-lethal stabbings to murder and rape."

John's mouth dropped open in shock. "How did… what happened?"

"It was typical… he threatened the med tech, we tried to talk him down, I tried to deduce him into submission… nothing was working. The tech…she was already bleeding pretty heavily where he had his knife at her throat. He wouldn't let her go… she was bleeding and I thought he would kill her right in front of us…" Sherlock trailed off and dropped his head.

"Lestrade finally managed to get a clear shot and sunk a round into his head before he was able to do any more damage to the girl. She's at Bart's…they think she'll be alright. The killer is dead and the children's parents were notified." With a last heavy exhalation, Sherlock finished the tale.

"Sherlock…" John began. "That's awful. I don't even know…what to say. Fuck… I am so sorry you had to endure that today. But…it's not your fault. You know that right? It's not your fault."

"Oh John…" Sherlock sighed. "But it is. It is my fault. I had this man in my sights two months ago when we had the Regent's Park case and I didn't get him then. He slipped out of my fingers, only to come back and viciously murder three young children and then rape them after they died. He… he killed children, John… mere children, and then he violated their bodies after they were dead. Not even their bodies had peace, John. And then I failed to observe that they had indeed been violated after their murders, which threw off my timetable and blinded me to the fact that the degenerate was still in the room!"

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of his chair, yelling with a hoarse voice. "He was still in the room, John! Watching us. And then he came out and he took that woman hostage and almost sliced her throat open in front of us. He is dead now, and he will never have to face what he did to those children. Even if there is a hell… there is no hell hot enough or cold enough or miserable enough to make that man pay for what he did. Crimes against children are the most vicious crimes, John, you know how I feel about that. And it was MY fault! Because I didn't catch him the first time. I let him slip away, and then I failed to deduce a crime scene accurately. ANDERSON even caught on to the real facts before I did. He wasn't able to put them together, because he's an idiot, but he saw what I did not and it almost cost that tech her life."

John gaped. "Sherlock…"

"No, John, don't you see?" Sherlock's hollow eyes fixed on John and his chest heaved with uncharacteristic emotion. "This is my art…my work. This is supposed to be my masterpiece…the thing I am best at. I know more about this than any other person in the world. My art demands perfection because when I don't get it all right, people die. People get hurt when I make an error. What happens if it's not the med tech, but you, next time? You? Lestrade…hell, even Donovan or Anderson or Dimmock… What happens when my mistakes hurt you? What happens when you take a bullet or a knife because I am too useless and stupid to notice anything or I'm too blinded by my own perceived importance?"

John was off his chair and kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock before the sentence was even finished. He took one of Sherlock's graceful hands in his and used the other to gently cup the detective's cheek, stroking the defined cheekbone with a thumb.

"Sherlock, how can you even think something like that?" John asked. "You are not useless and you certainly aren't stupid, so I don't know where you think you can get off thinking those things. You are good at what you do and you're important…Sherlock, you're so important. You're important to me and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and even Mycroft." Sherlock snorted and John smiled. "Besides… Lestrade and all the others work for Scotland Yard and the police. They know that this kind of thing come with job. And me… well, you said danger and here I am. The point is…we know what we're getting into when we walk with you. There's a battlefield out there, Sherlock. Lestrade lives there. I see it when I walk with you. And I wouldn't do it unless I wanted to… wanted to be there with you."

"But why do you want to walk with me, John? Why do you do this? Why stick around with me? I'm madder than the hatter, John. My mind… it gets so loud sometimes." Sherlock bowed his head and hunched his shoulders.

John brought his other hand up to Sherlock's head, tenderly stroking the soft curls with one hand and the smooth skin on his face with the other. "What do you mean it gets loud, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shuddered under John's hands. "I can hear… people in my head. It's not schizophrenia or anything like that… it's just my memory. Every memory of every failure I've ever had. Every poor choice and every wrong move echoes in my head. I can hear the voices of the people who have accused me and slighted me, even the words of well-meaning mentors who were just trying to set me on the right path. Haven't you ever wondered why I don't sleep all that often? It's because every time I close my eyes and try to stop thinking, all of those people…all of those memories flood my mind and I can't keep them out. They chatter incessantly about how stupid and crazy and incompetent I am. I don't like it, John… I hate it when people think I'm incompetent."

John continued his soft ministrations, almost swallowing his tongue when he felt hot tears damming up under his thumb as they coursed down Sherlock's cheek. "But you're not incompetent, Sherlock," he said. "You know this."

"Do I?" Sherlock asked, his voice cracking around the edges. "I know that I am very smart and that I am very good at my job. But that doesn't stop it, John. It doesn't stop the onslaught of guilt and shame that I feel every time I close my eyes. No matter how many successes I have…no matter how brilliantly I execute a case… there's always something that goes astray…some fact I should have picked up on sooner, some question I should have asked differently. Every failure I've ever had is paraded in front of me like a bad movie compilation. And let's not even start on everything outside my work. How long will it take before I finally say or do something so insane that you can't bear to be at my side any longer? How much longer before my inability to empathise leads Lestrade to stop calling me for cases? When will Mrs. Hudson stop putting up with my efforts to relieve myself of the boredom? I don't…" he trailed off, unable to find the words. He pressed his head harder into John's hands and John shifted so that he could get closer to the aching detective.

"I am aware of how good I am, John," Sherlock said weakly. "But I am also aware of how worthless I am. The ability to reflect on yourself… it's not always a good thing. Every positive aspect of my personality that I can think of is outweighed by at least three negative ones. Every negative encounter I've ever had sits like a stone inside my mind and buzzes like the static on the telly. Sometimes it doesn't bother me. But sometimes… it just gets too loud and I get overwhelmed. And I worry…because… you…John, you shouldn't have to live like this, with an insane flatmate and partner. You—'''

"Let me stop you right there, Sherlock Holmes," John said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He took his hand out of the detective's hair and used it to push his chin up gently so that grey-green eyes met pearly blue. John's fingers reached up to gently push through the dishevelled curls and then swept down to brush across the defined cheekbone. He stretched up and placed a soft kiss on the man's forehead.

"You are the most brilliant and intriguing person I've ever met," John whispered. "You say so much about those negative personality traits, but you don't realise how many positive ones you really have, Sherlock. You are devastatingly smart and your mind sees things that no one else in the British Isles can. You can connect things that have no business being connected, but when we all step back and look at it, we can't imagine how we didn't see it in the first place."

John brushed another kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "You are a dedicated detective, scientist, and friend. You spend so much time so passionately involved in enhancing your skills and honing your knowledge… that's something that not everyone has the motivation to do, but you do it and you are relentless. You could easily be working in labs and developing the cure for cancer or finding a new molecule, but instead you spend time experimenting on legs and fingers and eyeballs so that you know how to do your job better. You chase the worst criminals around London so that people are safe. And not just the ordinary people…but your friends as well. You keep us safe… you stepped off a building for us and spent three years hunting felons so that we would stay safe, a feat in which you succeeded. That doesn't sound incompetent to me."

John placed another kiss on Sherlock's other cheek. "You yourself said that dissatisfaction drives artists. I think I understand that sometimes it can drive you towards insanity, but you have to understand that you are also a human. You are brilliant and amazing and fantastic…and you are a human. You can't know all the answers and you can't see around every corner. Things will jump out and surprise you…sometimes it will be good, and sometimes it will hurt. I know you strive to be a god amongst men, but at the end of the day, you're just that… a man. A bloody good man… the best man I've ever known. You think your humanity makes you weak and vulnerable. But Sherlock, your humanity makes you strong. Your humanity makes you beautiful. Your weaknesses are not cracks in your foundation and you will not crumble underneath them. Your vulnerability is what makes you brave. It leads you to do insane things that you otherwise wouldn't have done."

John leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against Sherlock's lips, smiling as he felt the detective press back gently. When John pulled back, he was pleased to note that Sherlock's pupils had dilated ever so slightly. "As for me… you're my best friend. My flatmate. My partner. I killed a man to save you within twenty-four hours of meeting you. I've followed you all around England solving cases and watching your back so that you could go be brilliant, and I would follow you to the very ends of the earth if you asked me. I mourned you for three years while you were off saving the world and saving us. You… you put me back together when I came home from the war. Sherlock…"

John trailed off and kissed him again, a chaste brush of lips in which he hoped to convey the words that he couldn't formulate in his mind. "You're mad. You're mad and brilliant and arrogant and kind. You're honest and gentle when you need to be. I understand with perfect clarity exactly what you are, Sherlock. And I love it…it inspires me to see things in ways I've never thought about before. I love all of it. I love you and all your imperfections. You are not incompetent and you are not worthless. You're human and you're beautiful and you're strong. You do good and you are good and no one is allowed to tell you any differently."

John found himself being pushed backwards on his knees as Sherlock slid off his chair and threw his long arms around John in a fierce embrace. John returned it, holding Sherlock as close as he was able, whispering sweet affirmations in his ear the whole time. They stayed locked in the embrace for many long minutes before Sherlock pulled back, leaving his hands resting on John's shoulders. The good doctor was pleasantly surprised when it was the detective who bowed his head and brought their lips together for another tender, passionate kiss that felt like a slow burn inside John's chest. This kiss, however, was something more. It was an exploration, gentle with lips and tongues and soft nips and shallow breaths and beating hearts. It was ardour and love and desire all stoked to a quiet frenzy by their insane lifestyle. But it was also a confession and gratitude pouring forth from both men, a confession that neither of them had ever expected to give, and a thanks they'd whispered a thousand times alone in the dark but never voiced aloud.

_I am cold and unworthy of your admiration. Thank you for loving me. _

_I am broken and unworthy of your company. Thank you for loving me. _

"You love me?" Sherlock asked when they broke apart for air, fixing his friend with hopeful, unbelieving eyes.

"I love you," John affirmed, kissing Sherlock's nose affectionately.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you too, you know."

John chuckled. "Well that's a mercy anyhow." Sherlock grinned back and nestled his head into John's neck, causing the doctor to laugh again and hug the taller man.

"C'mon," John said. "Let's go to bed."

"Together?" Sherlock asked.

"Together," John said.

Sherlock stood and helped John up, the doctor's knees cricking and snapping as he went. He took Sherlock's hand and started to lead him towards the stairs, but met resistance when Sherlock pulled the other way. John raised his eyebrow in question at the younger man.

"My bed is bigger," Sherlock offered. John laughed and then followed the taller man into the surprisingly tidy bedroom that smelled faintly of sandalwood and lavender.

Ten minutes later, they were both lying in Sherlock's bed in their pyjamas, Sherlock's head nestled into John's chest so that he could hear his heartbeat. John had his arms wrapped around the detective and every now and again he would drop a kiss into the dark curls or massage Sherlock's deceptively strong back with his hand.

"John?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I could get used to this."

"Me too, Sherlock. Me too."

It wasn't until later the next morning, as they were both sitting up in the bed with a cup of tea and sections of the morning newspaper that Sherlock realised that he'd drifted off to sleep and for the first time… hadn't been harassed by the evil memories. His mind felt peaceful and calm even though there were a thousand different lines of thought traversing the space. It was like John had fixed his brain. The thoughts were still there… the connections were still being made and the sentiment didn't distract him as he thought it might.

It just made everything a little less loud


End file.
